


Red

by Elle_Smith



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Dark, Heero Torture Series, Multi, The rest is spoilers so read at your own discretion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-18 08:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10613244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Smith/pseuds/Elle_Smith
Summary: Waking up with a black hole in his memory, Heero tries to recreate what he had done the previous night. The answer, will be his downfall.





	

**Author's Note:**

> GUNDAM WING is a Registered Trademark of Bandai, Sunrise, Sotsu Agency & TV Asahi.
> 
> This work of fiction was written for non-profitable purposes.
> 
> Non-Gundam Wing related names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 
> 
> **Also, please note that Heero's musings in this fic DO NOT, in any way, reflect my own views**. 
> 
> **Cover art:** Gundam Wing Frozen Teardrop, Chapter 20; Levin, A., One Day in Tel Aviv, Oil on canvas, 2016: <http://fineart.artlevin.com/portfolio-archive/one-day-in-tel-aviv/>
> 
> **Length:** ~15K words (Jesus... this was supposed to be a drabble!)
> 
>  **Beta-reader:** Morbidbirdy
> 
> **Warning:**
> 
> #  **Dark, dark, DARK!**
> 
> I don't want to give away any spoilers, but **this story does contain more than a few triggers** , so reader's discretion is advised. It ain't gonna be pretty.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Preface:**
> 
> **My only excuse for this:** my life sucks and I take great pleasure in torturing Heero Yuy. What can I say? It takes the load off... Enjoy Heero's pain. I know I do... *snickers*
> 
> Elle

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/130931047@N06/33181821186/in/dateposted-public/)

* * *

 

 _"...A~llāhu_ **_akbar_ ** _... A~llāhu_ **_akbar_ ** _..."_

White curtains billowed gently in the breeze, carrying the call of the Mu'azzin through an open bedroom window. The Arabic chant repeated monotonously, beckoning worshipers to join the midday prayer.

 _"...A~llāhu_ **_akbar_ ** _... A~llāhu_ **_akbar_ ** _..."_

A gush of hot wind blew the curtains aside, making room for the harsh white rays of the Mediterranean sun to enter a bare and dusty bedroom. They fell upon the double bed standing at the center of the room, where a nude male figure was lying prone and spread horizontally across the bed – feet and hands dangling limply over the edge of the mattress on each side. A messy head of dark-brown hair lay against the yellow bed sheets, face hidden in the wrinkled fabric. A thin white bedspread was tangled loosely around the young man's firm legs and bottom, leaving his tanned backside exposed to the scorching Middle-Eastern sun.

 _"...Ash-hadu an-lā ilāha illā_ **_allāh_ ** _..."_  

The Adhan prayer continued echoing from a distance, blending with the regular hustle and bustle of the city: people and cars rushing loudly through the street below, buses roaring, peddlers announcing their wares, all mixed with the rumbling call of the Mu'azzin resonating from the minaret of a nearby mosque...

 _"...Ash-hadu an-lā ilāha illā_ **_allāh_ ** _..."_

The young man moaned, letting out a low drawling sound. He shifted his head slightly to the side, unruly locks of chocolate-brown hair fanning out across the yellow bed sheet.

_"...Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan-Rasul ullāh..."_

Bleary blue eyes struggled to flutter open, but failed and sealed themselves safely back behind puffy eyelids.

_"...Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan-Rasul ullāh..."_

Grunting, the young man reached out a clumsy hand and searched blindly for a pillow. Once he found one, he flung it over his head,  throwing billowing clouds of dust into the air. He folded his legs up to his chest, dragging the white blanket up with him as he curled into a fetal position.

But that sun... That cursed Middle-Eastern sun! It grew brighter and hotter as the day progressed, searing his unclad figure through the thin white sheet. The climate was terribly arid. And dusty. And _hot_. The region's unbearable Khamsin weather of dry, sand-filled windstorms blowing sporadically for days on end only added to the noisy discomfort, robbing him of his sleep.

_"...Hayya'alas-ṣalāh...Hayya'alas-ṣalāh..."_

He tried to twist out of the blanket, unsuccessfully, while slowly dragging his body towards the edge of the bed and away from the window. He slithered to the floor in a boneless heap, taking the white bedspread down with him. He groaned groggily, head falling in exhaustion against the bed as he remained kneeling on the floor. He sat there, immobile, his forehead pressed to the mattress.

_"...A~llāhu akbar... A~llāhu akbar... Lā ilāha illā-Allāh!"_

The Mu'azzin finished reciting the Adhan and only the hum of the bustling city remained: a constant clamor of traffic and people going about their daily business.

The young man shifted slightly. His eyelids fluttered lazily, revealing black irises adjusting sluggishly to the bright light. Prussian blue eyes blinked against the terrible brightness. Raising his head up slowly, Heero stared blankly at the window through glazed-over eyes, completely disoriented.

Outside, the world continued moving hastily forward while he remained kneeling by his bed, staring dazedly out the window. Then, when a car honked loudly and someone shouted an obnoxious-sounding stream of words, Heero finally stirred to life. He floundered unsteadily to his feet, using the bed for support as he hauled himself up with a pained groan. The white sheet slid off of his naked body and fell to the floor, exposing his striking physique. He stood there, a muscular silhouette against a bright window, and gawked dully at the wall.

His feet trembled when he swung them forward, moving on a shaky pair of legs. He shuffled tiredly towards the bathroom, swaying from side to side and using the bedroom walls for support. He stumbled into the tiny washroom, threw himself to the floor by the toilet and hurled loudly into the bowl.

When there was nothing left to heave, he remained there a moment, hunched defeatedly over the toilet seat. He stared numbly at the disgusting brown chunks floating in the toilet water. The acrid smell made him sick, but he had no more strength to vomit.

He coughed, wiping the wetness around his mouth with the back of his hand. Trembling, he turned around and reached up for the sink. He pulled himself up, moaning miserably, and reached blindly for the shower-stall door. He wobbled inside and flailed around for the water switch.

Cold water shot out of the showerhead. Heero gasped sharply. His blue eyes shot wide open as full-awareness crashed upon him mercilessly. He recoiled towards the wall, violently jolted back when his naked back met the cold ceramic tiles. He stared shell-shocked at the glass wall, trying to figure out where he was and how he had gotten there.

Fractured images flickered dimly in his mind's eye – elusive bits and pieces of memory that could only be what he had done last night: dark city streets and the stench of urine; colorful neon lights and suffocating cigarette smoke; a green bottle of beer and the acrid taste of whisky; his feet shuffling heavily over the pavement... Everything blurred into a hazy mash of scattered recollections: a drunken night on the town.

Gradually, the water warmed. The tension dissipated from his aching muscles. Deflating, Heero slid against the wall until he was sitting on the shower basin. He drew his knees up to his chest and allowed the hot water to wash over him, soothing the terrible ache that was awakening all over. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head down and pressed his forehead to his kneecaps, folding into himself. He stared apathetically at the white shower basin between his legs, too numb to feel any alarm when he noted that the water pooling around him was tainted red with blood. Detached, he watched the rosy liquid circle the drain and mused on the enchanting beauty of rose-red against snow-white...

A woman's bold-red lips curled into a mischievous smile. Her tantalizing blood-red lipstick contrasted her fair white skin, drawing his attention to her perfectly carved lips as they moved to form words he couldn't quite hear...

" _Urgh..._ " Heero grunted throatily, closing his eyes. He hugged his knees closer, curling further inwards. Hot water rained on him from above, washing over his hunched backside and plastering his hair down to his face. He stared ahead numbly through matted hair. His mind felt terribly empty even when he struggled to summon up memories of last night.

He had gone out drinking again, hadn't he?

Yes. He distinctly remembered making the decision to go out for a drink. Just the one, really. Just to forget... for one lousy night, anyway. So yeah... one drink. Just the one. Just one night off the wagon, that's it. Just one night out of the ninety-three _miserable_ nights he had spent working as a Preventer operative in the agency's Middle East Division. Shit had accumulated to an unbearable level, so he drank... even though he shouldn't. So what.

There was no one here to stop him. No one would partner with him anymore and frankly he preferred it that way. People only got in his way. They were complicated and dense; he could never see eye-to-eye with any of them. And so, alone in this shithole corner of the world, it was up to him to stop himself. Which was why he had made a promise – just one beer. Just the one, just for tonight. Just so he could get out of the house... maybe even get laid. He really needed to get laid. And not just some cheap hooker by the docks, but something real. Something obtained freely: without demands, cash or the price paid for drinking himself to oblivion.

Those blood-red lips twisted into a sly smile again. Heero shook his head against his knees and closed his eyes, willing them away.

He had lost his virginity to a Zhanqiao Pier prostitute, about seven years ago. He was working for Preventer in Qingdao, China, along with Wufei Chang. He was barely eighteen and still fresh out of the war. The experience had been extremely awkward: clumsy and disturbingly mechanical. He had no idea what he was doing and it showed. It was over so quickly... utterly embarrassing.

Wufei never knew, of course. His strict partner would have found the act beyond appalling, but Heero only saw the practicality in it. It was very unlikely that he would have lost his virginity any other way, not the way he used to be back then. He still had trouble with the exposure and vulnerability sex usually entailed. He tried again after a while, hoping to improve performance. It took some practice before he had learned how to approach sex from a position of power.

Whores were good target practice, but Heero had always opted for the real thing. He wanted to test his skills on the battlefield, where successful conquests were measured by the number of women one got into one's bed, and not by the amount of money paid for them to get there. If anything, his Zhanqiao-whores made him realize very early on that his biggest obstacle was the fear of letting go. One of them had said that he hadn't been living enough (or at all), so he decided to make a change: to let go and, quite literally, let loose. He wanted to break free of the paralyzing awkwardness, but not with prostitutes. That was where booze came into the picture. It was an efficient tool, essential for his self-appointed mission.

He had been living in Qingdao for a few months, rooming with Wufei, who had also been his Preventer partner at the time (the only one willing to be paired with him throughout his career at Preventer). One of the whores had introduced him to a local alcoholic beverage, which grew on him fairly quickly. He had welcomed the gentle buzz and false sense of serenity. The more he drank, the more he felt at peace. At long last, he was able to drift to sleep without the demons shrilling in his head.

He had started drinking almost every night and finding easy hook-ups in local bars. He would start drinking immediately after work, so by the time he would hit the night scene, he was already a loose cannon. Finally, he had gotten a taste of that elusive _freedom_ he had fought for his entire life. Wufei didn't get it, but Heero did. Peace wasn't the subsequence of war, rather the liberation of one's will. Heero had found his peace between wrinkled sheets reeking of alcohol and sex. Finally, he had found some release.

There was this one bar he had frequented often, with dark corners and handsy clients. It was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. Women there were both promiscuous and indulgent; some had even tolerated his most vigorous expressions of passion. He had made many conquests there, including fucking the barmaid in the back room (exceptional service, indeed).

Wufei, of course, gravely disapproved of his new lifestyle. Heero couldn't have cared less and eventually moved out. Wufei didn't understand. He thought self-discipline and order would save him, but Heero knew better. Chaos was the very definition of life. And he wanted to live a little. He figured he had earned it...

...and he got exactly what was coming for him.

Again those red lips snarled at him nastily. Heero flipped his head back, letting the hot water wash over his face in strong currents. He kept his eyes closed tightly. Those blood-red lips continued to haunt him regardless. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to wash them away, but they kept creeping back behind his eyelids.

She had been a smooth-talker, that one. After a couple more drinks, well... her words became _very_ persuasive. He allowed her to tie him up. She kept telling him all the _hot_ and _dirty_ things she was going to do to him while kissing his neck and whispering in his ear as she tied his arms and legs down to the bed. The things she said all sounded very normal (suck him, ride him, etc.), so he let her tie him up. Real tight. So tight, that she nearly cut off circulation to his hands and feet. They became completely numb. Still, he didn't feel like anything was wrong. He was excited to take her up on her seductive offers. The battling anticipation and apprehension felt just like before going on a mission: a head-spinning mixture of adrenaline and fear.

Once she was done, she asked him to try to break free and offered to reward him if he could. The challenge was thrilling. He liked her game. He wanted more. He was _so_ drunk...

She left the room and he struggled with his bonds for a while. By then, he had lost all feeling to his extremities. It wasn't just that his limbs had fallen asleep, either; he had no mental control over anything above the wrist and below his ankles. He couldn't feel his hands and feet. He tried to break loose, but his movements were very limited and, intoxicated as he was, he had no functional strength.

She came back after a while and stood at the door, _staring_ at him. Her blood-red lips were curled into a sly smile. She told him he was no good, because he couldn't get out. He figured she was trying to tease him, that it was all part of the game. She then told him she wasn't going to reward him, but punish him instead. That too, he had thought, was part of the game.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

If Wufei hadn't decided to check up on him the next day, he would have remained tied up to that bed until he starved to death or perished from dehydration, because the last thing he had wanted once he woke up sober and realized what happened, was to break free of those bonds and face reality.

He had been played, all right.

She even took his wristwatch. It wasn't all that expensive, but she took it anyway, along with his wallet, his car keys (and car!), his service pistol and what little that was left of his dignity. The latter she had taken by sodomizing him with her vibrator, which she deliberately left on his bed. It was smeared with blood. Bright red, like her lips. He had been anally fucked by that bitch and all he could remember... was her lips.

He'd been told she must have spiked his drink with a date-rape drug, which would account for his lack of better judgment, fuzzy memory and failed attempts to resist her. Sadly, there was nothing wrong with his vivid recollections of those cruel red lips, or the punishments to which he had been subjected that night. Her lips... that blood-red lipstick... still haunted him day and night.

Those red lips had curled into a cruel smile when he had asked her to stop. She was hurting him, pumping the vibrator vigorously. He was utterly intoxicated, so he really didn't know what he had said. He hoped he hadn't begged. All he could remember was mumbling _"no"_ over and over again while her thick vibrator slammed into his rectum. _"Stop it!"_ he remembered exclaiming at one point, but she fucked him anyway and then tried to ride him. He couldn't even get it up because everything hurt and he was too exhausted. She smirked at him nastily, with those damn red lips, mocking his impotence. She beat him for a while, violently. Then the vibrator again. It must have lasted for about six or seven hours, but it felt more like an eternity.

For a while she even left and he remained tied to the bed while she watched TV in the other room. He tried to free himself, but failed, breaking both his wrists. Then she came back, all smiles, and tried to erect him again. Those cursed blood-red lips took him into her mouth and her thorough blowjob did the trick. She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips tightly. He just felt so defeated and simply laid there like a corpse. She ground down on him for like an hour. It hurt and he had winced with each of her thrusts. After a while, he just felt so apathetic and numb that he ended up falling asleep... or passing out. He woke up to the sound of Wufei pounding his fists on his front door. Wufei had to kick it open to get in, because the bitch had locked the apartment after her.

When the Chinese agent stormed into his bedroom, he found him tied up to his bed, naked, his body black and blue from the beating and his broken hands an alarming purplish-shade. Even through his swollen black-eye, Heero could see the drastic change in Wufei's expression when his dark eyes fell upon the blood-smeared vibrator resting between his legs.

Heero wrapped both hands around his head and buried his face between his knees, clenching his eyes shut. Seven years and he still couldn't get the sight of Wufei's abbohred expression out of his head. And the looks at the office... those were even worse. News had traveled fast and he was forced to leave the Qingdao field office soon after the incident. But no matter how far he ran _,_ that night will continue haunting him til death.

Most thought it impossible for a woman to rape a man. Society made it out to be something that wasn't as bad a thing as the other way around. Laughable, even. But sleeping with that red-lipped woman, against his will, has ruined his life. It wasn't just work. It affected everything. Close contact had always been an issue with him, but since Qingdao he avoided it more than ever before. He hated all forms of contact. Even a handshake was enough to send tremors down his back. He no longer felt comfortable with anything that restrained him, even seat belts or those little loops attached to a camera that one puts around one's wrist. His confidence was completely shot and his trust-issues had worsened considerably, bordering on irrational paranoia. He avoided people, mostly women, and kept to himself like a hermit.

He hadn't had sex for close to two years after Qingdao. He had tried with three different women – pathetic attempts to prove to himself that he still could. Two were random hook-ups and the third was his co-worker. With the first one, he had bolted when things got too serious. He just got dressed and left his own apartment. He told her she could stay the night and didn't return home until the next evening, just to make sure she was really gone. With the second, he lied and told her that he wasn't feeling too great. He actually pretended to have fallen asleep. She left.

The third woman he tried to have sex with was a rookie office clerk, who became smitten with him for some unknown reason while he was stationed at Preventer's London sub-office. She wanted to go out, and while he usually avoided such interactions, he had agreed. Maybe because he was lonely. Maybe because Wufei (who had transferred with him to London) had encouraged him to do so. Or maybe just because he knew it would hold off on sex. But when she finally got him to bed and he started to try, he couldn't get it up. She thought it was her, that she wasn't pretty or good enough, and he just let her believe that. They broke things up mutually and he never told her what happened to him. She found out later anyway, because the whole damn Agency knew about Qingdao. Once she knew, she tried to offer him pity sex and that's when he had––

" _Ungh!_ " Heero groaned painfully, shaking his head violently. He didn't want to think anymore! She was the one at fault. She was the one who acted provocatively. She provoked him. She shouldn't have provoked him!

Hugging his knees tightly, he turned his head to look up at the showerhead and closed his eyes, allowing the hot water to wash the grimacing expression off his face. He just wanted to stay under the warm current forever...

Around here, the population relied on solar water heating systems and rooftops were dotted with solar thermal collectors. In this heat, the hot water never really ran out, which was perhaps the only benefit of the insufferable Mediterranean weather.

The whole region was unbearable. If it wasn't dry and hazy outside, it was humid and hot. There was never a pleasant day, never a quiet moment. This little hellhole was filthy, crowded, poorly-designed and alarmingly callous. Unrelenting stress and distress had toughened the people and turned them into an abhorrent, indifferent and sometimes even cruel folk. Conflict was a way of life here. People lived under a loaded gun as if it was the natural order of things. Danger was all around, yet people never seemed to worry about tomorrow. They lived in the _Now_ and their only concern was themselves. They went to the beach by day and the bars by night as if tomorrow will never come.

Anything could happen here at any moment, and yet, this place was the least of possible evils in the region, which was why Preventer chose to establish its M.E. sub-office in this _Non-Stop City_. Tel Aviv was a small beach-side paradise surrounded by an impossible hell. It encompassed people like a protective bubble, offering a false sense of security. This delusional sin-city was the very definition of hell, and for the first time since Qingdao, Heero found himself counting the days until he will be transferred to his next assignment. Preferably somewhere cold, quiet and beautiful.

He sat in the shower until his skin was red and raw. He was too tired to move. His muscles felt heavy and cramped. Whereas the warm shower helped thaw his aching body, it also awakened a piercing torment that pulsated everywhere, too deep and painful to be mere fatigue or veisalgia. This was more than just a hangover. He shouldn't be hurting as much as he was. Everything hurt. Everything.

This sent a sharp sense of alarm piercing through his chest. He remembered that morning, when Wufei freed him from his bed. After throwing up in the bathroom, he felt like he had to go, but it hurt too much so he stopped trying and just sat on the toilet holding his head in his broken hands. Wufei wanted to bandage them, but the moment he was free Heero ran to the bathroom and locked himself inside. He didn't want to step back into the bedroom and face his critical partner. He sat there with his eyes closed and concentrated on the sharp throbbing in his rectum, counting the painful pulses like a sick meditative practice. He wasn't sure if he was feeling the same way now, because his bottom didn't pulsate painfully like it did back then.

Heero shifted, moving to sit on his knees. He bowed to prostrate himself while touching his head to the floor, in a semblance of the Dozega position. Hunched over the shower basin, he hugged himself, eyes clenched tightly. The water streamed down his curled spine and trickled into the crevice between his buttocks, stinging his anus. It scorched the sensitive patch of skin, but he welcomed the stinging pain; the cleansing.

That night in Qingdao kept playing behind his closed eyelids. The restraints. The pain. The rough caresses. Red lips nibbling and biting his flesh. Then, without warning or lubricant, the vibrator plunged inside him. If he hadn't been so drunk, he probably would've cried from the pain. She kept pushing, no matter how many _no's_ he had repeated breathlessly – still mistaking her mistreatment for a game. She never let up. The pain was so intense it was almost numbing...

Before he knew it, Heero was pumping his erection furiously under the hot shower stream. He masturbated as though his life depended on it. Images flickered rapidly through his mind: her red lips were everywhere on him. He came with a stifled grunt, almost whimpering. His orgasm left him shaking.

For a while, he just sat on his knees, panting quietly. When his breath evened, Heero raised his head up to the ceiling, his blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. He stared upwards with unseeing eyes, feeling like a fucked up piece of shit. The bitch had fucking _raped_ him, and he was jerking off thinking about it. What was wrong with him? And what the hell happened to him last night? Why was he sitting on the shower floor like Qingdao happened merely yesterday, instead of seven years ago?

He had a sick feeling that something vital was escaping him. Something happened last night. Something... He didn't know. He couldn't remember. There was a big gaping hole in his memory and this unnerved him more than anything else. More than the sweeping pain. More than the dark bruises forming on his skin. More than the bloody water circling the drain... What if he had hurt someone again? If he had harmed someone... If he... Oh please no...

Letting out a quiet groan, Heero covered his face with his hands and shook his head in violent negation. He sat kneeling under the showerhead, face covered and his head bowed in despair.

They won't let him off so easily this time. The first time, they were lenient. They let him off with a severe reprimand and his co-worker never pressed any charge, because of Qingdao. The second time, they weren't so understanding. The girl was just a random fuck and wasn't so forgiving. Apparently, her _'no'_ really meant no. Still, they went easy on him, all things considered, so it wasn't that a big of a deal. He got away with only three months of forced institutionalization. And therapy. Lots of it.  He was officially a sex offender now. A menace to all women and a ticking time bomb. And so meds. Lots of fucking meds, to keep him in check.

But that was an understandable penance, he supposed. He had... He had hurt women. He got violent on more than one occasion, not just those two times. He couldn't blame it all on the Qingdao. The doctors claimed it went much deeper than that, and the more treatment he got, the harder it became to argue with their claims.

Of course, they had blamed it all on his mother. They postulated that he must have also been sexually abused as a young child. He couldn't recall, but he couldn't rule it out either. He had suppressed so much of his early childhood, perhaps for a good reason. _"Yes"_ , they had all agreed, and spouted all sorts of useless psycho-babble about his past. They threw all these fancy terms in his face, labeling him however they saw fit. From _"Pervasively Angry"_ to _"Vindictive"_ , they accused him of being extremely volatile and driven by his self-anger and repressed hostility. They went on and on about his difficult childhood and subsequent low sense of self-worth, suggesting that he had never learned to distinguish between sexual impulses and aggression.

They summed up all of his troubles as poor impulse control and a lack of sufficient social skills, born out of years of abuse and constant exposure to explicit violence. One doctor had even gone as far as to suggest that, being both the recipient and perpetrator of violence, he had internalized the victimization experience as normal and even pleasurable. Perhaps he had. He didn't know. He couldn't refute their assessments. And the more he listened, the more plausible they became. He believed them. It made sense; made everything so much simpler. It wasn't his fault. He was taking his anger out on women because of a violent childhood and low levels of social competency. He was acting the way he did, because the abuse had always been there. Maybe even from the very beginning.

He began suffering from terrible nightmares. Horrid visions haunted him day and night, intruding on his every thought. It was hard to tell what was real and what was simply a nightmare. He was plagued by terrible delusions of grabby hands reaching out from the dark and slimy fingers slithering all over his frightened little body. The doctors asked more and more questions, filling his head with countless theories, until he couldn't separate reality from hypothesis anymore. The hate grew, burning in justification. Everyone hurt him. Everyone. His enemies were everywhere. If they were not after his life, then they were out to toy with his life, his body... his mind. It all came back to him, resurfacing from the deep. He had been toyed with in unspeakable ways.

There was this one time, during training. Two of J's lackies mistook his young age for helplessness and tried to have their way with him. They ambushed him during an urban-warfare simulation, trapping him in the cellar of some abandoned building. They were fierce, but he had thought that it was all part of the simulation. He planned on retaliating accordingly, but when one of them pulled his pants down while the other struggled to restrain him, he had realized that the simulation was long over. The battle got real and he had changed his retaliation tactics from _Stun to_ _Kill_. He never let them lay a finger on him. He was certain J would punish him severely for killing the two, but instead J said that if people tried to touch him like that, then he had permission to to protect himself and neutralize the threat. No one would punish him for it. J had said so.

Those red lips snarled at him again. She, too, had gone unpunished. She had hurt him, leaving him to a life of shame and ridicule, and suffered nothing for her deeds. He hadn't been able to protect himself from her, nor was he able to deliver retribution for her profane acts of sodomy. He didn't even know her name, or how she looked like. All he remembered was that bright-red lipstick and the terrible agony of her vibrator slamming into his anus while her melodious laughter rang in his ears... She had hurt him like no one ever had.

So, yes. He had hurt women, but only because they had hurt him first.

And Relena... she had tried to help. She took him in for a while. She was so good to him, but he ended up hurting her too. It was her fault. It was her fault for always being so good to him, for always being so much better than him. She had to know that. He had warned her – countless of times. He had told her how she was so much better than him and still she wouldn't keep her distance. And he... It wasn't his fault. She had offered it freely and he wanted her comfort so damn much. He wanted the peace she had promised him, but he had hurt her anyway. It was her fault. She refused to give up on him, so he had hurt her again, and again... and again... until he had crossed the line.

And again with the doctors. Again with the meds. White-padded walls and padded restraints. Close to nine months of it. They drugged him and kept him tied up to a bed. Tied up to a _bed –_ **_again!_** And the abuse didn't end there. They weren't satisfied until he was thoroughly punished. The night nurse had seen to that. She had hurt him too, vengefully. Just like Qingdao. She'd jerk him off, fingering him and laughing when he came in her hand. No one believed him. Nightmares, they said. Maybe they were right. He didn't know.

One time, she had shoved her soiled finger into his mouth and forced him to lick it. He had bitten her, hard. But the wound wasn't there the next night when she forced him to lick his own cum off her hand. Maybe it never happened. He couldn't tell reality from the nightmares anymore. But the fact was that for the next few days after she had forced him to lick his own excrement, he had a terrible case of diarrhea, so maybe it was real. He didn't know for sure. All he knew was that he was as fucked up as they come: mentally, physically and quite literally.

And if last night would turn out to be the _fourth_ time things had gotten out of hand, then... then there was no hope. No hope for him at all. If his rehabilitation had just proven to be useless, then this was it. This would be his last stop before they'd lock him up in that padded white room and throw away the key. He'd live out the rest of his life restrained to a bed and pumped full of drugs.

The red lips snarled again, amused.

**_NO!_ **

Heero's head shot up, resolute. He had to be the first to know. He had to retrace his steps from last night and find out what went wrong. He had to... before anyone else beats him to it.

*          *          *

Stepping out of his apartment building and into the unforgiving high-noon sun, Heero grimaced at the brightness burning into his brain even through his dark sunshades. His headache was only made worse by the harsh sunlight. Standing in a pair of rugged blue jeans and a simple white T-shirt, his semi-dry hair disheveled after just stepping out of the shower, he paused and took a moment to recalibrate his muddled senses.

The stench of smog and spices dominated the hot dry air. His senses were further assaulted by strong scents of cinnamon, cumin, and the distinct potent fragrance of the green cardamom powder locals used to flavor their coffee, along with a touch of exhaust smoke. Inhaling this sickly combination on an empty stomach made him feel nauseated. His stomach roiled and his insides clenched. It _hurt_. He covered his mouth with his fist and heaved a few dry coughs, wincing at the pain they stirred inside. It was almost like...

The red lips smirked. Heero winced, shaking his head. His insides hurt, but he couldn't tell if the pain was real or imagined. It was getting harder and harder to tell which was which. Determined to find out what caused his keen discomfort, he pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, picked a direction and started walking.

Allenby was a bustling commercial street stretching along the sparking blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. It was a vital city artery, where public traffic ran along day and night carrying people in and out of the central district. At night, it became a hub of city nightlife, known for its cafés, pubs and restaurants. The Preventer sub-office, as well as other key offices/embassies, were all situated nearby. The lively street was a short walking distance from state-of-the-art office buildings, the ancient biblical city of Jaffa and the local _souq_ – marketplace. It was a noisy, polluted and constantly busy lane where modern and ancient collided in a colorful clash of cultural differences. Usually, Heero paid no heed to the exotic surroundings and walked briskly past it on his way to work. Today, however, he paid careful attention to every detail, peering through his sunglasses as he ran his eyes over the endless rows of small businesses along the lengthy street.

He hadn't bothered checking the time when he left his apartment, but three months of living here had taught him that when the Mu'azzin echoed from the mosque in midday, it meant that it must around 1300 hours. Today was a Friday, and hence it was the most hectic time of the week. All around people rushed to finish their errands before the Jewish Shabbath entered and shops closed until Sunday. Most of them were carrying hefty bags full of groceries from the nearby Carmel Market. Here and there a pair of religious Jews stood in a street corner, uselessly urging passersby to _"put on Tefillin"_ , which was some kind of religious practice involving the bondage of one's arms and head with black leather straps. They tried to stop every male passing by them. Most people ignored them and kept walking; some even jeered at them. Of course, they never once asked the likes of _him_ to stop. Around here, Heero stood out like a sore thumb. His East Asian features singled him out easily from the rest.

As a rule, there were only two types of Asians around these parts: the occasional tourist or businessman, and foreign blue-collar workers – the latter being far more common that the former. People here associated Asians with the lower-working-class, most of them migrating from Southeast Asia to work sanitation, construction, nursing the elderly and other lowly jobs. Regardless of one's origin, education or occupation, to the locals, every person with _"slanted eyes"_ was either a _"Filipino Worker"_ or a _"Thai Whore"_ , simply because the two ethnic groups constituted most of the immigrant workers in the country. It didn't matter that he worked for one of the most powerful institutions on Earth, or that his once distinguished position and status within the Agency were known worldwide. Here, he was only as good as he looked. And due to his golden skin-tone and the shape of his (albeit blue) eyes, he was just another _Filipino_.

And then he remembered. He remembered the stunned look of surprise on the barman's face when he had pulled out his prestigious American Express Platinum card to pay for his drink. One drink. Just the one. He was certain of it now and a sense of triumph filled his chest. He _did_ quit after one beer! But then... what happened?

Stopping abruptly, Heero stood in the middle of the street and reached into his jeans back pocket to take out his smartphone. He entered his Amex app to get access to his American Express account and check for his latest transaction. He should have thought of this sooner, but his mind was all jumbled as a result of last night. This sent another jolt of alarm bursting from his chest. It lodged itself painfully in his throat. The last time he had lost his mind like that had ended badly. Very badly. An entire detail of Secret Service agents bursting into Relena's condo in the middle of the night kind of badly. Then, a court-ruling of temporary insanity and subsequent short-term institutionalization... his second admission in under five years.

It took him almost two years to prove himself worthy again in Preventer's eyes, working a desk-job for what felt like forever before they cleared him for field duty again. Then they stuck him with this crummy Middle-East assignment, shipping him to this blazing _hellhole_. Out of sight, out of mind. One less rogue agent to worry about. At 25, he was already well past his prime. From a key member of Preventer's Global Counter Terrorist Unit, he had been pushed aside to serve a mediocre position in one of Earth's filthiest backallies. He hated it so much here, but he was resigned to the fact that this was just another stepping stone on the way back to the top. He had a long climb ahead of him and if something happened last night, if he had done something to jeopardize this climb, then that was it. He was done for it.

Waiting for the app to load his credit-card information, Heero tapped his foot impatiently on the pavement, anxious to piece last night back together. When it finally loaded, he noted that the card's last activity came from a nearby pub. Judging by the small amount he had paid, he couldn't have ordered more than a single beer. He had kept his personal promise to himself. Therefore, alcohol couldn't possibly account for the disturbing black hole in his memory. This worried him even more. Could he really have had another breakdown? With the state he was in last night when he went out... anything could have set him off. He went out to escape, to forget. What if something forced him to remember instead? Who knows what reaction it might have triggered. What if he... No. No. No! No jumping to conclusions. Evidence. He needed evidence.

Heero shoved his phone back into his pocket. He then made his way towards the address listed under the transaction. The search for his destination led him through the city's narrow streets, all crammed with crumbling old Bauhaus buildings, vandalistic graffiti writing and heavy traffic. The rundown façade was depressing and claustrophobic. It seemed almost surreal that modern skyscrapers soared above it all at the end of the antiquated street. Too many differences clashed here: religions, sects, ethnic backgrounds, nationalities, loyalties and even time itself all blended into a never-ending conflict of interests. And yet, the notorious Tel Avivian hipster culture bloomed all around him. People sat at coffee shops without a care in the world, discussing _"The Situation"_ over a latte and a smoke. All they ever did was talk while everything fell apart around them. As someone who had once gone to great lengths to make a difference in the world, Heero felt utterly disgusted by it.

The place he was searching for turned out to be a small bar/bistro situated on some crummy street-corner. Nothing fancy, so none of the _chic-people_ were drawn to it. Maybe that's why he had chosen the place. Most likely, the line at the entrance was the shortest, since Thursday night – the equivalent of a Friday night anywhere else – was one of the busiest nights of the week and most places were packed with people waiting outside for a table. He must have chosen it for its lack of popularity. Looking at it now, he felt a sense of dismay towards the shady-looking establishment. This was asking for trouble, wasn't it?

Heero heaved a long sigh, shook his head in self-reprimand and entered the bar. It was very small and dingy, decorated in gloomy red and black. Despite the high-noon sun blazing outside, the place was very dark, illuminated only by the light pouring through the glass door through which Heero had entered. Squinting against the sharp contrast, he pushed his sunglasses up his head and took a look around. All of the chairs were up, as the place had probably just opened for business. A waitress, an olive-skinned young woman with a thick black ponytail, was sweeping the floor when he entered. Once she heard the door shut behind him, she looked up with an infuriated expression.

"No work! No work!" She uttered irately while sweeping, speaking with a sharp Israeli accent, which had a flat Middle Eastern pronunciation and a guttural quality.

Heero held back a sigh of disapproval. She was mistaking him for a Filipino. He took a sharp step forward to approach her, reaching into his back pocket.

"I'm not looking for work," he said calmly as he pulled out his leather badge-case and flashed his identification at her. The girl's eyes widened when she noted the Preventer insignia. She looked about ready to shove her foot in her mouth.

"Shit, so ** _r_** y!" She called, flustered, and straightened up. She stood holding the broomstick tightly and offered him an apologetic smile. "I can help you?" She asked with broken English and sheepishly tucked a lock of black hair behind her ear.

Heero nodded and placed his badge back in his jeans pocket. "Were you working here last night?" He asked, scrutinizing her sharply. He tried not to stare too closely at her pale lips, but he couldn't help it. It was a sick ritual, looking for those red-lips in whatever female he encountered. Her lips hardly qualified. They weren't nowhere near as lush or pouty. The girl was too plain and scrawny to be of any real interest. Her built was more masculine than feminine, with her broad shoulders and flat chest.

"Uh, no. So ** _r_** y," the girl mumbled, shrugging, and he tore his gaze away from her mouth. "I call **_R_** afi," she offered, "He p ** _r_** obably nose mo ** _r_** e." The awkward sentence rolled unnaturally off her tongue, the constants not so much pronounced as gargled. The Israeli _"R"_ was pronounced deep in the throat with no involvement of the tongue, as opposed to the English or Japanese _"R",_ which were much softer and rolled gently out of one's mouth. [1]

While he was fluent in quite a few languages, Heero found the local tongue to be extremely challenging. During his short time here, he had done little to acquire much vocabulary, and the only words he did know were the prolific _"y'alla!"_ , which was Arabic for _"come on/get moving!"_ and the ever-useful _"kess ommak!"_ , which was an Arabic swear-word (meaning _"fuck your mother"_ ). Both had been widely adopted by the Jewish population of the region. He had found that he could do very well with just those two words at his disposal, along with the word _"shit"_ locals had adopted from English.

The pale-lipped waitress disappeared into the back room behind the bar. He could hear her talking to someone, but the only words he recognized in the long stream of Hebrew were _"Preventer"_ and _"ana a'reef"_ , which was a way of saying _"the hell do I know?"_ – again, by using an Arabic phrase.

Much like most Hebrew-speaking locals, his Arabic summed to a few random phrases. The only full sentence most, himself included, were capable of uttering was: _"wakef walla ana batuchak!"_ – stop or I'll shoot. This was the sad reality of the region and another reason, one out of many, why he desperately wanted out of here. He hated this place with every fiber of his being.

A short moment later, a tall and dark man dressed plainly in black emerged from the back room and came to greet him from behind the bar. He was a giant of a man, about ten years his senior and nearly twice his size, with shoulders that could've been mistaken for mountains. His wide jaw and heavy brow-line made him look slightly aggressive, but his dark, closely trimmed beard softened his face somewhat. When he spoke, he looked straight into Heero's eyes, which was something Heero had never found intimidating... until now. He had to force himself to look back into the man's squinting black eyes.

"Ahh, akhi? Ma kore?" The man, Rafi, opened casually in Hebrew with something along the line of _"sup bro?"_ He leaned on the polished bar surface and flashed Heero a white-toothed smile, chewing obnoxiously on a piece of gum. "What can I help?"

While unwarranted, Heero suddenly got the feeling that he should have walked in armed. He stepped stiffly to the bar, feeling a little off his game. It was nothing new, sadly, but now he even felt _paralyzed_ for some reason. It took him a moment to find his voice again.

"Were you working the bar here last night?" He asked quietly, his hand unconsciously seeking a sidearm that wasn't there. He didn't know why. Usually, he was never this timid. He could always keep up the pretense, even when he felt himself falter inside. But something didn't feel right about this place, and it made him extremely edgy. He did his best to affect a strict businesslike-facade, while feeling atypically coy inside.

Strange how these... _brutes..._ had such an unnerving effect on him. It was their cockiness, perhaps. Their blatant cheekiness and that stupid know-it-all grin on their bronze faces. They took everything so _lightly_ . Always so damn casual! They had no respect for authority or hierarchy. No one would ever call anyone _"Sir"_ around here, regardless of rank or status. They shoved their noses where they didn't belong and made everything their business. They were arrogant, rash and meddlesome people living according to their own twisted set of rules. Utterly unbearable. He hated it here so damn much!

"Ah, yeah." Rafi confirmed, scratching his closely-trimmed beard thoughtfully. "Why? Some _ **t**_ ing  **_r_** on ** _g_ **?"  

There was no dignified way of saying this, so Heero looked the guy sharply in the eye, dead serious despite the ridiculous question he was about to ask:

"Do you remember me being here?"

The barman chuckled as he quite noticeably ran his eyes over him. He flashed Heero an impish smile, still chewing the damn gum. "I'm sho ** _r_** e I wood **_r_** emembe ** _r_ ** ," he said, winking suggestively and looking damn full of himself. "Guy like you, coming he ** _r_** e... not som ** _t_** ing I fo ** _r_** get, you no."

Heero was about to open his mouth to retort with something nasty, but the words died in his throat. Looking at the man's smug face, he suddenly realized that he remembered this guy: this was the same barman from last night, the one who was shocked to see a _"Filipino"_ carrying a platinum American Express card. It had to be him. Or someone who looked a lot like him. His memories from last night, what little he could remember, were too hazy to be certain of anything. It was more of a feeling than a recollection. It was hard to tell. These people all tended to look alike to him, but he was fairly certain that the barman from last night also had a dark and closely-trimmed beard.

"Are you sure?" He asked slowly, scowling darkly at the guy.

"Yeah, man. Sho ** _r_** e," Rafi insisted and reached under the bar for a glass and a bottle of Jameson Irish whisky. He placed them on the counter and poured himself a shot. Heero gawked at the flow of golden liquid, becoming numb inside.

"Lissen," he heard Rafi speak nonchalantly as he raised his shot of whisky. Heero couldn't tear his eyes off the glass. It was as if his mind had shut down, rejecting all cognitive function. What was he thinking, walking into a bar?

"No need to wo ** _r_** y, okay?" The barman gestured at the place with his glass. "This ba ** _r_ ** ? It's all good. You people come he ** _r_** e and tink dis place is a big mess, yeah? But dats how tings a ** _r_** e, you no?" He emptied the shot and placed it on the bar, grinning cockily. "It's okay, Preven ** _t_** e ** _r_ ** ," he urged Heero, pointing at the door with his chin. "Go home. We don't need you to be police. We take care of it. We know how. He ** _r_** e," he added, drawing another glass from under the counter. He filled it with whisky and pushed it towards Heero. "On da house," he offered, smiling arrogantly; "So you go home happy, yeah?" He winked.

And then Heero also recalled the (bearded?) barman handing him a whisky chaser, on the house, to apologize for his presumptuousness. He had winked then too, just like this Rafi person. It had to be him. The man was lying to him about last night. He had to be lying!

"You no," Rafi suddenly added as an afterthought, as if reading the apprehension on his face. He reached for the drink he had poured Heero, for the young man clearly wasn't going to accept it. "Come to tink of it," he continued, "maybe I did saw you, you no?" He mumbled thoughtfully and raised the shot of whisky to his lips. "Yeah..." he added, eyeing Heero behind the glass, "Maybe I did..." He smirked and gulped down the shot, releasing a sigh once he swallowed. He set the glass back down and smiled cheekily at Heero. "I tink I told you to go home. You were so _gamur_ , you no?"

He meant _wasted_ , Heero realized, observing the man warily. Could he have really made the fatal mistake of accepting that drink last night? Could it be that he hadn't stopped at one?  He had been sober for over two years now... why would he risk throwing it all away for a damn shot of whisky? A beer should have sufficed. All he really wanted was an excuse to leave the house. And, if he did have a lapse of judgment and drank that whisky chaser, could a single shot of hard liquor really account for his memory loss? It didn't make sense.

"But don't wo ** _r_** y, ah?" Rafi carried on casually; "I took ca ** _r_** e of you. **_R_** eel good, yeah?" He laughed.

Heero saw red. He flung his hand up and grabbed the cocky son-of-a-bitch by his shirt, yanking him forward so hard he crashed onto the countertop.

"Took care of me **_how?!_ ** " He growled the words out through clenched teeth. He tugged the man's shirt forcefully, slamming him against the bar. "What did you do to me?!" He demanded to know, leaning over the older man.

" _TAXI!_ " Rafi shouted back, flailing his arms and writhing on the bar in an attempt to break free. "I called you a fucking **_TAXI!_** " He stressed angrily and jerked with each word, attempting to tear himself out of Heero's deathgrip.

Something narrow and hard slammed against his middle-back. The powerful blow tore a pained grunt from Heero's throat. Enraged, he let go of the barman. He whirled around, blue eyes glowering. Age-old instincts kicked in. He grabbed the staff in mid-turn, ready to snatch it violently from his attacker and retaliate, but instead – he froze. His wide eyes fell on his assailant and he halted abruptly, holding the wooden stick without pulling it away from the person wielding it against him: the pale-lipped waitress. She was standing right in front him, handling her broomstick like a weapon. The sudden realization that his opponent was a female brought Heero to a standstill. He stood rigid, seething with anger, but reluctant to retaliate as he had planned. He mustn't. Never again. Not after what he had done to Relena...

He winced, feeling a painful pang in his chest, and almost faltered. It took real effort to keep himself from recoiling a step backwards. He stood there with his fists clenched at his sides, trying not to think of the wretched look on Relena's bruised porcelain face after he had hit her so hard she fell to the floor, gaping at him in disbelief.

The wrong had felt so right when he was with her. It was like the more he loved her, the more he suffocated with hate. And just before he was about to drown in this darkness, she had resuscitated him with her love again and again. It was insane. When things were good, they were great. There were times when he actually believed that she could save him. However, when things got bad, it was awful. He had laid his hands on her, stooping so low as to hate her for her love. He had snapped at the smallest provocations. She would reach to touch his cheek softly and he would respond with a sharp slap and a shout not to touch him. Afterwards, he would feel so ashamed for it, but it wasn't enough. Apologies were never enough. The shame grew and so did the hate. He wanted to leave. He wanted to save her from himself, spare her the suffering, but she wouldn't let go. She. Would. Not. Let. Go!

So he made her. And he hated himself for it.

The waitress seemed baffled by his sudden stillness, but quickly seized the opportunity to keep the upper hand. She swung her broomstick like a skillful kendoka, ending her sharp movement by thrusting the brush under his chin, pressing against his neck. She glowered back at him with angry black eyes.

"Hey!" She called. Heero laid his gaze on her slowly. "We don't want no t ** _r_** ouble he ** _r_** e!" She warned, poking his neck with the broom to emphasize each word.

Heero stared at her numbly. Her skills were not surprising. Many around here were ex-military, due to the country's conscription law, and most were proficient in hand-to-hand combat. These people belonged to very militant society. They had to be; they were the only force in the area strong and capable enough to contain the mess sweeping across this terrible region. They were the West's first and foremost line of defence and thus crucial allies. But their strength came with an awful price. It had made them callous and distorted everything out of proportion. He hated it here so much.

Nevertheless, it wasn't the girl's combat expertise that had stunned him still. It was her lips. No longer pale, but bright-red. Blood-red lips... intent on reducing him to a quivering pleading speck of humanity. Just like Qingdao. She was just like the others. She was going to hurt him and there was not one thing he could do about it. He mustn't. Never again. Never again or they'd lock him up for good.

"Go home, P ** _r_** evente ** _r_ ** ," Rafi, who had recovered from Heero's crazed attack, muttered from behind. Heero didn't bother turning around to face the man. He couldn't. He couldn't look away. Those sneering red lips were all he could see. They covered his line of sight completely, obscuring all reason.

"Y'alla, akhi..." He heard Rafi speak as if from far away; "Go  home. Slip it off."

Heero blinked and the red-lips vanished. There was only the pale-lipped waitress holding a broom to his neck. He could take her out in a second, the barman too, but instead he just heaved a long sigh and walked away. There was nothing more he could learn here.

*          *          *

Heero sat on the toilet holding his head in his hands. His sweat-soaked white tee clung to his muscular torso while his pale-blue jeans hung around his ankles. He sat hunched forward, his elbows on his thighs and his forehead resting against the heels of his hands, hiding his face. His untrimmed bangs dangled in front of him, obscuring his closed eyes. A pained and grimacing expression twisted his unshaven features.

He had been straining for minutes long, but his clenched rectum refused to cooperate. His body was stubbornly resisting any bowel movement in fear of the pain it might elicit. It was a stupid involuntary habit, born out of months of constipation and nasty hemorrhoids as a result of Qingdao. He had been completely unable to pass stool after that red-lipped devil had her way with him, and even years later he had to really concentrate to get things going. His body was afraid to defecate, still expecting the pain. Chronic constipation had become a constant source of discomfort, but this time it was much worse. When his attempts to go finally produced some results, it hurt like hell. He tried not to think about why it hurt so much and simply settled on the brief sense of relief that came with voiding one's bowel.

When he stood up to flush the toilet, he found his stool floating in bloody water. Just like Qingdao. He stared numbly at the fresh blood staining the white bowl, trying to feel anxious or angry, but nothing came up. His mind had gone completely numb. It was better not to feel, not to deal.

He decided that he should get some fluids and nutrients into his system.

It was late afternoon and his kitchen was washed by golden sunset light coming from a window facing west. He would have been able to see the sunset over the Mediterranean, if not for the building right across the street. The bustling avenue had gone quiet as the evening hours approached and the Shabbath entered. Only the resonating call of the Mu'azzin remained, signaling worshipers to gather for the Maghrib prayer before sunset.

Heero walked to his banged-up refrigerator and opened the freezer. It was filled with a thick layer of ice that had built up on the empty shelves. He reached for a half-eaten pack of sliced bread – the only edible item inside – and shoved a slice into the microwave oven for defrosting. While the appliance worked to reheat his food, he turned to the refrigerator in search for something to smear on the weeks' old dry bread.

Barren white emptiness stared back at him when he opened the fridge. He couldn't recall the last time he had gone out shopping for groceries. Whenever he did bother with eating, he usually just ate something small at the office. Much like everything else around here, Heero found the local cuisine utterly unbearable, packed with so much spice and flavor he still hadn't found something to his liking. He hated it here so much. He could never find something appealing enough to eat when he shopped. Dairy products were in abundance, but he found them hard to stomach (lactose intolerance was common among Colonists, who barely had access to fresh produce and dairy foods). He didn't even own a damn carton of milk, but he did find a pack of spreadable butter in the deep end of the empty fridge. He hardly ever ate any fats, and he had no idea why he bought it if he didn't eat it, but it was better than eating stale bread. Butter had a long shelf-life, so, hopefully, it was still edible.

Heero took out the box of butter and removed the plastic lid. He then stopped, staring dumbfounded at its content. There was hardly anything left. He stood by the open fridge and gawked at it, stunned. How could he have run out of butter, if he never ate any?

He frowned, examining the butter closely. It was almost as if someone had dug out a large chunk with their bare hands and–– His heart came to a full stop.

_Someone tossed him onto a bed like a bag of laundry._

Heero jolted, as if feeling the impact. He stepped away from the refrigerator, clutching the butter tightly. He bumped into the countertop behind him. The microwave oven beeped, signaling the end of the defrosting cycle. Heero stared numbly at the box of butter in his hand, seeing straight through it, his mind elsewhere.

_The bed was soft and cold under his skin. The sheets beneath him felt crisp and smelled familiar. It was his bed. He was lying on his stomach as he listened to someone fumbling with his belt buckle. Cold fingers grabbed him by the waist of his jeans. His pants were yanked off as he lay there on the bed, unable to move._

_Someone twice his size climbed on top of him, straddling his back with a massive weight. Then he felt the man's engorged erection against his thigh. It was humongous. Meaty hands began canvassing his body, aggressive and greedy. His molester was rubbing his large cock against the small of his back and grabbing his arms to hold him still._

_He inhaled the sheets, unable to do much else. His body refused to respond. And then, without warning, his assailant plunged his buttered-up erection inside of him, fully. White-hot pain exploded behind his clenched eyelids. The piercing white flare obliterated everything but the agonizing hole being torn into his body. He couldn't bury his face in the pillow deep enough to muffle his tormented scream._

_"Hold on," someone said, and then quickly turned him over on his back. "I'll add mo **r** e bu **t** e **r** ," the man spoke, his chapped lips surrounded by a closely-trimmed beard. _

_Tanned fingers rubbed white butter against a screaming-red cock. He stared helplessly, unable to do much else. He tried to reach for the nightstand, hoping to feel his gun there, but his arm was too heavy and useless. His rapist pressed his hand firmly down to his chest when he felt him try to free himself, then pushed back inside in one swift thrust, pumping feverantly. Heero grasped the edge of the bed with his one free hand, closed his eyes, and waited for it to be over._

Just like Qingdao, someone had hurt him in his own bed. This was how he had run out of butter.

Heero trembled, seething with rage and abhor. He clenched his fist angrily, squeezing the nearly-empty box of butter in his hand until the plastic cracked loudly. How could this have happened to him – _again?!_ And how come he could barely remember any of it, if he only had _one_ beer? _One_ beer. Just the one! Just one beer and... And a shot of whisky, on the house.

_Shit._

This time, however, it wasn't a woman who had hurt him. It was a _man_ , which meant that he was well within his rights to retaliate. No one would punish him for it. J had said so.

Subdued by a sudden cold and calculated calm that came with this reassurance, Heero placed the squashed box of butter back in the fridge. He went to his bedroom, retrieved his gun from the nightstand and left his apartment. Heading down Allenby, he walked straight into that dingy shithole of a bistro-bar, drew out his weapon on his way to the counter and shot Rafi straight in his slack-jawed face.

When the pale-lipped waitress shrieked in horror, he turned around and shot her too, right between the eyes. He then tucked his service pistol back into his jeans and left the bar, smirking to himself. For once, he was the one snarling, and not those damn red lips.

Serves her right.

*          *          *

Wufei glowered at his own reflection. The tall Chinese man was standing inside a brightly-lit elevator, staring harshly at his mirror-image on the sliding doors. He stood rigidly, wearing his pristinely pressed Preventer uniform and polished black dress shoes. His smooth black hair was styled into a very short, structured and elegant haircut [2], emphasizing his stern appearance. His fists were clasped tightly around his thumbs. He clenched them even tighter as the elevator ascended, his white knuckles giving away his suppressed rage.

The elevator reached the eleventh floor and stopped. Wufei stepped out briskly and proceeded down a long gray corridor dotted with closed green doors, each bearing a small barred window. His stride was decisive and prompt. He reached the room at the end of the hallway, where an armed police officer stood guarding a heavily fortified door. Wufei drew his badge-case out of his back pocket and flipped it open as he approached.

The guard, a hulking middle-aged man, nodded in approval and Wufei tucked the badge back into his pocket. The armed guard reached for a clipboard resting on a small lectern at his side.

"Agent Che'ang," he greeted gravely, speaking with a flat Middle-Eastern accent, and handed Wufei the clipboard. The young Preventer agent accepted it quietly and immediately pulled out the pen attached to the side.

"Officer Harush," he returned the greeting curtly while he filled out his name, rank and time of visit in a designated guest-list table. His name filled all of the previous rows as well, dating back a few days at least. He signed his name in the last column and asked: "How's he doing today?"

"Awake sense dis mo ** _r_** nin," the guard grumbled irately.

Wufei handed him back the clipboard. "Lucid?" He asked skeptically, quirking an eyebrow.

"Mo ** _r_** e o ** _r_** less," Officer Harush muttered as he accepted the clipboard and placed it back on the reading stand. He adjusted his holster, securing it around his burly waist as he turned back to Wufei. "Enouf to t ** _r_** eten to kill me," he grunted dismally. "He got st ** _r_** ong. Keeps tea ** _r_** ing off the cuffs!"

Wufei nodded, suppressing a sigh. "Doing better, then," he surmised grimly. "Have you tried replacing them with something sterner?" He suggested.

"I wanted to, but docto ** _r_ ** say only da soft ones," the guard grumbled, shaking his head in disapproval. "Den dey come crying to _me_ when he t ** _r_** ies to kill dem!"

"I'll see what I can do about that," Wufei promised, offering the frustrated man a small, tight-lipped, smile. "I'm going in," he declared, gesturing at the door with his chin. The guard sighed and turned to the door. He reached for a hefty set of keys hanging from his belt and unlocked a series of different locking mechanisms purposely installed to keep the room's occupant from breaking out.

"Da soone ** _r_ ** you people take him away, da bet e ** _r_ **..." The guard mumbled and opened the door. Wufei nodded in acknowledgement and stepped inside. He stood with his back to the door and listened to Officer Harush secure the locks. His eyes were set on the room in front of him.

It was a modest hospital room with a small barred window overlooking the city skyline. The bright blue of the Mediterranean peeked behind tall buildings and heavy traffic crawled along the crowded streets. A narrow hospital bed stood under the window, washed by bright warm sunlight. Heero lay there on his back, bound by padded medical cuffs shackling his hands and feet to four thick metal rods on each corner of his bed. He was dressed in a short-sleeved hospital gown, leaving his bare arms and legs exposed to the sun. Both his knees, as well as his upper right arm, were wrapped in iodine-stained bandages, where he had been shot during a gruesome police chase through Tel Aviv's busy streets.

Heero had given them quite a fight, leading them all the way to the narrow stone alleys of Ancient Jaffa. The local task-force almost lost him in the maze of timeworn passageways, but Heero was soon spotted by a group of young soldiers who hadn't thought twice before leaping into action to neutralize the threat. He hadn't heeded their warnings to cease and desist, so they fired at him. Heero just kept on going despite taking on three bullets and finally succumbed to the massive blood-loss and collapsed on the stone steps leading up to the iconic St. Peter's Church bell tower. It was a major tourist spot, flooded with curious by-standers who had witnessed the ruthless manhunt and violent containment of a runaway killer. Footage was all over the internet. The media had a fucking _field day_. Preventer was still trying to contain the situation and manage this terrible PR embarrassment.

Heaving a weary sigh, Wufei stepped away from the door and carefully approached the bed. Heero seemed to be asleep, his eyes closed, but his stern and tight-lipped expression suggested that he might be awake. The doctors had kept him under heavy sedation since the incident, for the young man kept thrashing violently, breaking free of his restraints and tearing his stitches open. He hadn't been lucid for a single moment since he was brought in. This time, Wufei feared, they were looking at a total meltdown.

His stern face contorted into a pained grimace as he watched his former partner lying tied helplessly to a bed. That was how it all began seven years ago. Heero's fragile sanity had been crumbling piece by piece since that night in Qingdao.

Wufei closed his eyes sadly for a moment and turned his head aside, haunted by the memory of that awful morning, when he had found Heero lying shackled to his bed, beaten to a pulp and bleeding from his anus. Back then, he had been deeply troubled by his partner's sudden permissive lifestyle and therefore made a habit out of checking on Heero from time to time. That morning he had barged into Heero's apartment uninvited, expecting to find him passed out after a night of drinking, as he had many times before. Instead he had been greeted by a nightmarish sight that had etched itself into the back of his eyelids, always present whenever Wufei closed his eyes.

Sadly, the nightmare didn't end there. Today wasn't the first time Wufei had walked into a psychiatric hospital room to find his friend bound to a bed, or even restrained by a straitjacket. The last seven years had been a long, painful and tumultuous spiral down. Wufei tried not to place any blame, but deep down he couldn't deny his own abhor. He was deeply saddened by Heero's pitiable fall from grace. The Wing pilot had made it out of the war somehow intact, however, stripped of his duty and thrown into a world with such a different set of rules, Heero got lost in his despair and gradually succumbed to the darkness within.

Again, Wufei tried not to pass judgement. He understood, because they were very much the same. They were both soldiers who knew nothing but how to fight, finding fulfillment only when engaged in battle. They were kindred spirits who only acknowledged their existence through fire and blood, and therefore became lost in peacetime. Like broken toys, they were tossed aside when there was no one left for them to fight. He, at least, had a semblance of a semi-normal life to fall back on. Heero had nothing. That was why he had offered Heero a position at Preventer about a year after the war. He wasn't surprised when Heero took him up on his offer. Like him, the ex-Gundam pilot needed a purpose. With all the other pilots settled into a new life, all they really had was each other.

They made an excellent team, one that would have put to shame any popular "buddy-cop" movie out there. Fellow agents at the Qingdao office had dubbed them _"Bad Cop and Badder Cop"_. They shared a very realistic, gritty and no-nonsense outlook on life, but they also shared a silent, simmering chemistry that lurked right below the surface. In conjunction, they were a well-oiled peacekeeping machine, being so comfortable around each other that there was no need for small talk; a nod or a cursory glance was enough to speak volumes. As partners, they were ruthless counter-terrorist agents, but as friends, they were capable of unfathomable empathy. That is, until Heero began shutting himself off, refusing any form of kindness.

Wufei had done everything in his power to remain a loyal friend to Heero. He had left China to join Heero on reassignment in the UK, knowing that it was crucial that he remained by his partner's side. Someone had to keep an eye on him, because after Qingdao, everything changed. Heero had changed; cracked, somehow. That woman hadn't just stolen his dignity, she had shattered his confidence completely. For the first time in his life Heero had experienced real and utter helplessness, and it had taken a terrible toll. The rape seemed to poison his soul and infect his every thought. He became extremely distrustful and aggressive, but refused to seek help.

Heero was asked to leave the London sub-office soon after getting involved with one of the employees. He had attacked her, but she never pressed charges. As a result, Heero was reassigned to a different office and Wufei joined him, passing up on a much overdue promotion just so he could fill a position in Heero's designated new sub-office.

Desperate to help his friend, Wufei had even played an active part in reuniting Heero with Relena after they accepted yet another reassignment (again, because of Heero's severe misconduct) in Brussels. He had hoped that she would be able to get through to Heero where he could not. For a while there, it seemed to work. Heero wanted to get better and even quit drinking. However, the plan had backfired, because Heero moved from taking his frustrations out through alcohol, to taking it out on Relena.

The young woman was in too deep to see it for herself. For months he had tried to make her see reason, betraying Heero by attempting to convince Relena to leave him, but the hard-headed young woman refused to give up on her childhood sweetheart. Then, one night, Heero had flipped out on her, convincing himself that she was trying to hurt him somehow, and put Relena in a hospital for the following three months. Wufei will never forgive himself for being away that weekend, or for failing to convince Relena to get out while she still could. She had been hurt so badly, that she will never be able to bear children. She was perhaps the only person to ever show Heero true and unconditional love, and that was how he had repaid her.

Relena refused to pursue any criminal charges against Heero, as often the case with domestic violence, but Wufei insisted that he will be held accountable for his crimes, if only to make him seek treatment. Following a court ruling of temporary insanity, Heero was placed in psychiatric imprisonment for nine months following the incident. A series of psyche-evaluations cleared him for release and even return to duty a while later. [3] Heero then immediately asked for a transfer out of Brussels and permanent termination of their partnership at Preventer. Wufei hadn't expected anything else.

They haven't been in contact in over two years, and not for the lack of trying on Wufei's part. It was Relena who had encouraged him to try to patch things up with Heero. He had agreed, but only under the condition that she will refrain from doing the same. He had tried about a year ago, but Heero shot his offer of friendship down in a heartbeat, still holding a grudge.

So he tried to keep an eye on Heero from afar, making sure he was rebuilding his life without another incident. When the news came about how a Preventer agent had killed two unarmed civilians in cold blood, Wufei had boarded the first flight out of Brussels to get to Heero. Sadly, the person he had found upon arrival was merely a distorted shadow of the man he used to know. Heero had completely succumbed to the madness and Wufei feared that this time, he was beyond salvation.

He opened his eyes and laid his gaze on Heero. The man was awake, staring up at him quietly. His Prussian blue eyes seemed eerily calm, but at least aware.

"You were drinking again," Wufei opened with a harsh accusation, straight and to the point.

"I wasn't!" Heero called out in protest, his tone hoarse and distraught. They were falling back into old habits, as if the last few years had never happened. Perhaps, to Heero, they never had. It was difficult to tell what Heero was aware of in his current state.

"Then why were you in a bar?" Wufei asked sternly, crossing his arms over his chest. Heero's eyes shifted anxiously across the room.

"I–– I––" He struggled to form an excuse, just like so many times before, but eventually gave up, sighing. He shook his head, closing his eyes in defeat. "It was only... one beer..." He mumbled in a small, tired voice. "Just the one..."

"Then you _were_ drinking again," Wufei rebuked without masking his disdain.

"No!" Heero exploded angrily, shaking his head in denial. He jerked his hands frantically, yanking the padded cuffs around his wrists. He thrashed madly on the bed, his back arching off the mattress in a useless struggle. "I didn't––! I––! It wasn't–––! I––! I... I was... I was getting better..." He moaned the words out dolefully, falling silent as he slumped tiredly against the mattress. Subdued, he turned his head away from Wufei and gazed forlornly out the window. "It was... it was just one beer..." He mumbled to himself, his voice now small, despaired. "...just the one..."

"You shouldn't be drinking, Heero!" Wufei shouted, frustrated. "Not after all that's happened! Not with the medication you're on!"

"It wasn't the beer..." Heero whispered dazedly, still gazing out the window. He turned to face Wufei, looking up with pained and vulnerable blue eyes. Wufei couldn't bear to watch. Those were the eyes of a victim, not a killer. The sight was utterly gut-wrenching.

"Please, Wufei..." Heero pleaded miserably, "you _have_ to believe me. I didn't lose it because I was drunk."

"Then what was it, Heero?" Wufei sighed and slumped his shoulders down, feeling tired all of a sudden. "Why'd you do it?"

Heero hesitated, chewing on his chapped bottom lip for a moment. "I..." he let out and then stopped, grimacing as though in pain. He looked away, closing his eyes sadly. "I... I ran out of butter..." He murmured, casting his gaze down in shame.

Wufei frowned. "What?"

Heero opened his eyes and turned to look at him sternly. " _Wufei_ ," he stressed his name in annoyance, "I don't _eat_ butter!" He explained in frustration, as though it should have been obvious. "I mean..." he added in a whisper and turned to face the ceiling, frowning puzzledly. "I... I mean... I hardly ever eat any butter..." He whispered, dazed and confused.

Wufei lowered his gaze to the floor. "Heero," he said softly, "you're not making any sense."

Heero snapped his head in Wufei's direction, blue eyes livid. "It was there!" He shouted angrily. "In–––in my fridge! I bought it. I... I think... but I didn't eat it! At least... I don't think I ate much of it... and it ran out anyway!"

Heero was bouncing rapidly between two extremes, agitated one second and demure the next. Wufei struggled to make sense of his crazed and slurred words.

"The butter?" He asked to clarify.

"Yes!" Heero nodded eagerly, clearly relieved that he was finally understood.

Wufei frowned at him. "You killed a man because you ran out of butter?"

" ** _No!_** _Dammit_ , Wufei!" Heero exclaimed in frustration, banging his restrained fists against the bed. "You make it sound so––! I'm–––! I'm _not_ crazy! He–– he used it, don't you see? He used up all the butter!"

"So you killed him."

"Yes! I–– _No!_ Stop it! You're twisting my words! I didn't kill him because he used the damn butter!"

"Why then?"

"Because of _how_ he used it! Don't you see?! I had to! I had to kill him, Wufei! I had to! J said I could! He said so! He... he said I could..." The anger seemed to leave him all at once, and Heero deflated limply against the bed. He closed his eyes, tears lingering to his thick eyelashes. "He said it was okay..."

Wufei sighed, bowing his head down sadly. "Heero, I'm sorry, but that _is_ crazy," he said quietly, shaking his head.

"No... Wufei..." Heero moaned, his desperate expression begging him to understand. "You don't get it. He said... he told me that if... if they tried again, then... He... he said I could."

"J? Doctor J?" Wufei tried to make sense of Heero's disjointed ramblings. "You think Doctor J ordered you to kill those people?"

Heero nodded his head fervently. "J promised I won't get punished!" He explained in a rush, yanking the padded handcuffs forcefully. "I shouldn't be here, Wufei! It's not right! It's not fair! It's not right!"

"Heero, you killed two people."

"I've killed **_hundreds_ ** of people!" Heero laughed/sobbed loudly, tears streaming down his gaunt cheeks. "What difference do these two make?!"

Wufei closed his eyes mournfully for a moment, before turning to Heero in anguish. "If you can't tell anymore, Heero, then you're beyond help. A soldier who has lost his soul is nothing but a killer." He turned to leave the room.

"No! Wufei! You don't understand... Listen to me! I'm _not_ crazy! J said it was okay to kill those two... he said so!"

Wufei stopped, his back to Heero and his fists clenched at his sides. He couldn't face him anymore. There was nothing left of him to face.

"I'm not crazy Wufei! I––– I––– I know what he did! He–– He used the butter to–– don't you see?!" Heero struggled to explain, his words coming out fast and jumbled. "He used the butter! He used it so it won't hurt... so I won't have any evidence against him – but I know what he did! I _know_ it! And she knew too! She was laughing at me! Those damn red lips! They were all laughing at me!"

Wufei's back tensed as though he'd been struck. "So you shot her too?"

"Yes! Fuck – yes! She deserved it! They both do!" Heero cackled, stifling a crazed laugh. His red-rimmed eyes were wide and eager. "I'm the one laughing now, see? Me! I'm the one! Fuck those lips! Fuck 'em!"

"Heero..." Wufei whispered, turning slowly to face him. "I'm sorry," he said, "But you're talking crazy."

"It's–– It's these drugs!" Heero grumbled. He cast his gaze down guiltily. "I'm... I'm sorry..." he mumbled, calm once again. "They... They pumped me full of drugs..." he shook his head weakly against the pillow. His Prussian blue eyes shimmered with tears as he turned to gaze helplessly at the ceiling. "I... I can't... I didn't mean to laugh... I... I can't think very well..."

"That's because you're not well, Heero. You haven't been well for a very long time."

Heero's head snapped in his direction again, tearful blue eyes glowering at him madly. "Because it happened again, Wufei!" He cried out, banging his restrained fists on the mattress. "It happened to me **_AGAIN!_ ** "

"You're right... it did happen again," Wufei confirmed coldly, trying to keep his cool or else he might give in to the painful sight of the pitiable young man lying before him. "And this time, they're not going to let you walk free."

"It's not fair..." Heero moaned, almost wailing. "I... I was... I was getting better..."

Wufei bowed his head sadly. "I know, Heero. And I'm truly sorry."

Heero turned to the window again, gazing miserably at the city skyline.

"They sent me here... to this... this... this––" he stopped, shaking his head violently. "I **_hate_** it here! I hate it!" He suddenly exploded with anger, whirling his head back to Wufei, blue eyes livid. "I can't sleep, I can't eat... everything is so–– _urgh!_ I hate it here! I never hated anything as much as I hate this **_fucking_** place!" He ranted on like an angry teenager, his face red with anger as he fought violently against his bonds. "This–– this–– This punishment is too much!"

"Well," Wufei replied calmly, unfazed by the sudden tantrum. "Maybe you deserve it, after what you did to Relena..."

Heero's eyes widened and he froze, sinking back against the bed. He stilled, relaxing his clasped fists and closing his eyes.

"She wanted to come," Wufei informed him quietly. He noted the tears trickling from Heero's closed eyes.

"I implored her not to."

Heero nodded his head gratefully, his eyes still closed. Tears lingered to his thick eyelashes.

"Don't let her anywhere near me..." He murmured, abashed.

"I won't," Wufei assured him firmly and Heero nodded his head again, thankful.

An awkward silence stretched for a while, until Heero's tears dried. He opened his eyes and turned to look apprehensively at Wufei.

"You're taking good care of her... right?"

Wufei nodded curtly to confirm. "I am."

Heero looked away guiltily. "I didn't mean to hurt her..."

"I know," Wufei let out softly. "She knows."

Heero set his eyes on him again. They burnt so fiercely they almost seemed lucid. "I'm not crazy, Wufei," he spoke steadily for a change, sounding like himself again. "I know she's better off with you. I know I hurt her... and I know that she didn't deserve it. None of them did. But I wasn't wrong this time, Wufei. Please. You have to believe me. Just... just look at the butter. Please."

Wufei looked away or else he'd falter. He had almost believed him. He had almost allowed himself to be fooled by those calm and steady words. He wanted to much to believe that Heero was speaking to him coherently, but it was just wishful thinking. The Heero he used to know and admire, was long gone.

"I'll come back in a few days," Wufei mumbled sadly and turned to leave. "Once the medication kicks in... we'll talk."

"No!" Heero screamed, fighting his restraints again. "Wufei, please! Don't go! Don't leave me here! _Wufei!_ "

Wufei did the only thing he could do. He walked away, knocking on the door once to signal the guard to unlock it.

"Wufei! Wufei!" Heero called after him while the door was being unlocked from the outside. "Wufei, listen to me! I can prove it! Wufei! Just look at the butter! Wufei, please! Just look at the butter! **_WUFEI!_ ** "

The door opened and Wufei hurried to step out of the room.

"I shouldn't be here! Please!"

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of Heero's desperate voice. He marched quickly down the long corridor, desperate to get away from the crazed screaming:

"I hate it here, Wufei! I **_HATE_** this place! **_I fucking HATE this place!!!_** "

Wufei stepped into the elevator without turning to face the hallway again. He allowed the doors to close behind him. Only once he was hidden safely behind the closed elevator doors, did Wufei turn to the buttons panel. His face was set into a stony expression, but his dark eyes were coated with a sheen of moisture. He pressed the _Lobby_ button and then bowed his head down mournfully. He closed his eyes, allowing two thin streams of tears to slide down his clean-shaven cheeks.

**_~ Oh, how the mighty heroes have fallen._ **

**_Stripped of their weapons, their souls remain bare._ **

**_They roam the Earth lonely, lost in despair._ **

* * *

 

[1] Here's a comical (and totally exaggerated!) example, on which I stumbled upon while researching for this story. It was _very_ inspirational, as you will soon see: [ https://youtu.be/TqIrHY2eVRY ](https://youtu.be/TqIrHY2eVRY)  

The places researching for a story takes you... yikes. XD

[2] i.e, my fantasy-Wufei: [ http://www.mens-hairstyle.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/Chinese-Men-Very-Short-Hair.jpg ](http://www.mens-hairstyle.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/Chinese-Men-Very-Short-Hair.jpg)

[3] I know it might seem unlikely that Heero was allowed to continue working for Preventer after all he had done, but, in my defense, I would like to point out that many criminals – from sex offenders to rapist and even WWII Nazies – are/were allowed to continue living their everyday life as if they had done society no wrong. Sadly, this is the kind of world we live in.

**Author's Note:**

> **Postface:**
> 
> Jesus. Don't ask me where this shit came from. I have no idea. I'm not even sure if the second rape was all in Heero's head, or if it really happened. I'm leaning towards the latter, because the injustice of it all is so alluring.
> 
> I can picture Relena feeling sorry for Heero and sneaking behind Wufei's back to see him at the mental hospital. What a scene it would make! (Especially if she knows that he snapped because he'd been assaulted again – ah, the angst!) Maybe she even insists taking Heero in after he's released and Wufei gets all worked up about how she loves Heero more than she does him... this can practically write itself. (Maybe this could be a future 5xR story. Who knows.)
> 
> I think I went places I never dared visiting with Heero's character before. That toilet-scene was particularly embarrassing to write! And to put him in the mindset of a sex offender and an abusive partner was difficult to say the least. I might have explored the issue deeper if I wasn't so deterred by it. Perhaps now would be a good time to go back to that 1xD WIP of mine and write Heero the way I love him... yeah. I think I'll do just that.
> 
> Needless to say, I would love to hear what you thought on this version of Heero. My headcanons for this fic are open for debate, if anyone's interested.
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> Elle
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Bibliography:**
> 
> Susan Faupel, M.S.W., Etiology of Adult Sexual Offending, U.S. Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs Office of Sex Offender Sentencing, Monitoring, Apprehending, Registering, and Tracking (SMART). Retrived March 19, 2017 from: https://www.smart.gov/SOMAPI/sec1/ch2_etiology.html 


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